


la petite mort

by unhookingstarswithoutpermission



Series: exr week 2016 [4]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Day 4: Divine, French, French idioms, Grantaire pov, M/M, Pining Grantaire, Prose Poem, allusions to sexual intercourses, enjoltaireweek2016, exrweek2016, kinda one sided relationship, shitty poem tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 20:32:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7136051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unhookingstarswithoutpermission/pseuds/unhookingstarswithoutpermission
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The little death is translation from the French </i>"la petite mort"<i>, a popular reference for a sexual orgasm. The term has been broadly expanded to include specific instances of blacking out after orgasm and other supposed spiritual releases that come with orgasm. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	la petite mort

**Author's Note:**

> Idk what this is. It's a really really short poem and I don't even like it that much, I wouldn't even have put it here but I want my works for the enjoltaire week all in the same place so I kinda had to  
> I've stumbled upon this French idiom earlier thanks to Hozier's "Angel of Small Death & the Codeine Scene", which I've listened to while I was writing, and it's a really good song so go listen to it!

I have never found reasons to pray and 

I have always considered kneeling in front of 

cold altars and golden decorations 

useless, to say the least, stupid and 

overrated – there are some 

who build their life around functions and prayers, 

some who are caged in the convictions 

of religions and ideals. 

Whenever I hear him rallying, those same 

idealised dreams become honey and wine and bread, 

and just then I understand why some 

would die for their beliefs, 

and I don't despise them anymore – but I laugh 

at their stupidity, at their blinded idiocy. 

I first learn the advantages of kneeling beside a sacred god 

when I witness a martyr at the altar of my desire, how 

his eyelids flutter like wings of a hummingbird and 

the way he leaves scars on my scalp, barely hidden by hair. 

He is just so similar to angels up above, while 

I am a shell of all the earthly passions and the sins, 

so I name him my angel of small death 

and he calls me nothing but a waste. 

He utters sweet words in the dark, when he thinks 

I can't hear him, and he cuts like sharp glass 

through the days when alcohol taints stolen kisses 

and unanswered prayers. 

He never calls me, but I hear him 

and I'm ready to offer sacrifices and to kneel on the concrete; 

he thinks I'm genuflecting beside ideals of revolution, 

he doesn't understand that I pay respects only 

to the god of my idolatry. 

I get on my knees and offer the pieces of me that aren't completely ruined, 

and I pray that he grants me 

my  _ petite mort _ .

 

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://unhookingstarswithoutpermission.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/imonthetardis)!


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